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<s> SOLDIER BOY By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't. In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come. — Scandinavian legend Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement. There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them. After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness. Well, I never, a nice lady said. What's he just standing there for? another lady said. And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers. The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind. <doc-sep>Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him. The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes. Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here? Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up? The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan. C'n I go now, Jim? Dylan turned and nodded. Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift. Was he drunk ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of liquor ? The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time. He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold. After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again. <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy. When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something. For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut. In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut. The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back. In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had. This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip. <doc-sep>An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage. Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities. This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly. By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something? Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it. But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance. See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our home . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand.... It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was. There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is. <doc-sep>Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move. We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then. For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action. Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine. Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time. He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip. Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all. Once he had even studied military tactics. He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain. He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands. Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut. <doc-sep>Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that. When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire. Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take? Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why? His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought.... Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on? Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford. Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like. It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask. The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people. Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance? Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody. It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened. Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice. The damn fool! Rossel exploded. Who? Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never.... You think one of your people did it? Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious? Why? Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids.... <doc-sep>It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal? Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut. The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white. So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again. Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask. He started away but Dylan caught his arm. Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire. Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands. He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire. All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us? No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow. Were they small? Little animals? Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it. He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel. He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun. <doc-sep>The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow. By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting.... A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him. He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him. Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope. Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that. Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it. But they have a contract! The soldier grinned. The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap? <doc-sep>Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it. Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it. The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet. Telepathy? asked Dylan. Might be. Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all? Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before. Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor. He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending. Then Rossel jumped. My God! Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog? After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries. Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three. When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up. Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship. The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints. <doc-sep>The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed. He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave. That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But flexibility , he reminded himself sternly, is the first principle ofabsorption , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun. The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold. Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship. <doc-sep>When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan. Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio. Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust. He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore. Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help. <doc-sep>But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people. But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio. After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone. They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship. It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up. In the end, the ship took forty-six people. Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> SOLDIER BOY By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't. In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come. — Scandinavian legend Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement. There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them. After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness. Well, I never, a nice lady said. What's he just standing there for? another lady said. And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers. The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind. <doc-sep>Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him. The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes. Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here? Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up? The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan. C'n I go now, Jim? Dylan turned and nodded. Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift. Was he drunk ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of liquor ? The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time. He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold. After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again. <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy. When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something. For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut. In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut. The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back. In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had. This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip. <doc-sep>An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage. Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities. This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly. By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something? Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it. But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance. See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our home . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand.... It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was. There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is. <doc-sep>Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move. We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then. For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action. Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine. Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time. He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip. Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all. Once he had even studied military tactics. He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain. He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands. Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut. <doc-sep>Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that. When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire. Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take? Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why? His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought.... Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on? Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford. Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like. It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask. The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people. Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance? Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody. It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened. Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice. The damn fool! Rossel exploded. Who? Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never.... You think one of your people did it? Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious? Why? Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids.... <doc-sep>It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal? Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut. The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white. So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again. Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask. He started away but Dylan caught his arm. Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire. Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands. He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire. All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us? No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow. Were they small? Little animals? Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it. He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel. He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun. <doc-sep>The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow. By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting.... A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him. He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him. Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope. Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that. Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it. But they have a contract! The soldier grinned. The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap? <doc-sep>Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it. Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it. The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet. Telepathy? asked Dylan. Might be. Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all? Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before. Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor. He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending. Then Rossel jumped. My God! Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog? After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries. Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three. When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up. Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship. The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints. <doc-sep>The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed. He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave. That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But flexibility , he reminded himself sternly, is the first principle ofabsorption , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun. The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold. Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship. <doc-sep>When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan. Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio. Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust. He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore. Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help. <doc-sep>But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people. But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio. After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone. They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship. It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up. In the end, the ship took forty-six people. Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> SOLDIER BOY By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't. In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come. — Scandinavian legend Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement. There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them. After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness. Well, I never, a nice lady said. What's he just standing there for? another lady said. And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers. The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind. <doc-sep>Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him. The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes. Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here? Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up? The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan. C'n I go now, Jim? Dylan turned and nodded. Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift. Was he drunk ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of liquor ? The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time. He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold. After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again. <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy. When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something. For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut. In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut. The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back. In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had. This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip. <doc-sep>An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage. Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities. This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly. By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something? Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it. But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance. See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our home . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand.... It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was. There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is. <doc-sep>Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move. We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then. For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action. Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine. Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time. He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip. Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all. Once he had even studied military tactics. He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain. He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands. Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut. <doc-sep>Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that. When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire. Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take? Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why? His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought.... Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on? Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford. Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like. It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask. The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people. Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance? Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody. It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened. Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice. The damn fool! Rossel exploded. Who? Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never.... You think one of your people did it? Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious? Why? Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids.... <doc-sep>It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal? Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut. The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white. So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again. Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask. He started away but Dylan caught his arm. Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire. Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands. He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire. All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us? No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow. Were they small? Little animals? Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it. He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel. He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun. <doc-sep>The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow. By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting.... A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him. He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him. Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope. Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that. Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it. But they have a contract! The soldier grinned. The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap? <doc-sep>Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it. Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it. The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet. Telepathy? asked Dylan. Might be. Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all? Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before. Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor. He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending. Then Rossel jumped. My God! Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog? After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries. Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three. When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up. Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship. The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints. <doc-sep>The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed. He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave. That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But flexibility , he reminded himself sternly, is the first principle ofabsorption , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun. The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold. Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship. <doc-sep>When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan. Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio. Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust. He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore. Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help. <doc-sep>But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people. But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio. After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone. They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship. It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up. In the end, the ship took forty-six people. Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> SOLDIER BOY By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't. In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come. — Scandinavian legend Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement. There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them. After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness. Well, I never, a nice lady said. What's he just standing there for? another lady said. And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers. The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind. <doc-sep>Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him. The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes. Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here? Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up? The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan. C'n I go now, Jim? Dylan turned and nodded. Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift. Was he drunk ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of liquor ? The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time. He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold. After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again. <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy. When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something. For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut. In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut. The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back. In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had. This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip. <doc-sep>An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage. Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities. This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly. By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something? Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it. But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance. See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our home . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand.... It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was. There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is. <doc-sep>Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move. We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then. For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action. Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine. Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time. He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip. Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all. Once he had even studied military tactics. He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain. He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands. Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut. <doc-sep>Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that. When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire. Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take? Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why? His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought.... Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on? Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford. Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like. It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask. The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people. Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance? Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody. It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened. Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice. The damn fool! Rossel exploded. Who? Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never.... You think one of your people did it? Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious? Why? Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids.... <doc-sep>It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal? Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut. The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white. So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again. Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask. He started away but Dylan caught his arm. Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire. Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands. He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire. All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us? No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow. Were they small? Little animals? Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it. He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel. He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun. <doc-sep>The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow. By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting.... A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him. He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him. Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope. Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that. Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it. But they have a contract! The soldier grinned. The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap? <doc-sep>Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it. Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it. The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet. Telepathy? asked Dylan. Might be. Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all? Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before. Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor. He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending. Then Rossel jumped. My God! Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog? After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries. Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three. When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up. Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship. The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints. <doc-sep>The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed. He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave. That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But flexibility , he reminded himself sternly, is the first principle ofabsorption , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun. The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold. Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship. <doc-sep>When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan. Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio. Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust. He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore. Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help. <doc-sep>But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people. But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio. After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone. They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship. It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up. In the end, the ship took forty-six people. Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> SOLDIER BOY By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't. In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come. — Scandinavian legend Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement. There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them. After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness. Well, I never, a nice lady said. What's he just standing there for? another lady said. And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers. The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind. <doc-sep>Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him. The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes. Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here? Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up? The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan. C'n I go now, Jim? Dylan turned and nodded. Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift. Was he drunk ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of liquor ? The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time. He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold. After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again. <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy. When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something. For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut. In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut. The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back. In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had. This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip. <doc-sep>An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage. Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities. This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly. By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something? Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it. But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance. See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our home . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand.... It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was. There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is. <doc-sep>Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move. We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then. For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action. Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine. Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time. He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip. Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all. Once he had even studied military tactics. He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain. He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands. Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut. <doc-sep>Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that. When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire. Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take? Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why? His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought.... Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on? Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford. Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like. It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask. The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people. Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance? Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody. It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened. Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice. The damn fool! Rossel exploded. Who? Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never.... You think one of your people did it? Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious? Why? Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids.... <doc-sep>It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal? Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut. The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white. So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again. Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask. He started away but Dylan caught his arm. Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire. Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands. He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire. All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us? No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow. Were they small? Little animals? Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it. He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel. He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun. <doc-sep>The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow. By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting.... A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him. He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him. Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope. Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that. Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it. But they have a contract! The soldier grinned. The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap? <doc-sep>Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it. Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it. The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet. Telepathy? asked Dylan. Might be. Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all? Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before. Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor. He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending. Then Rossel jumped. My God! Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog? After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries. Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three. When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up. Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship. The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints. <doc-sep>The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed. He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave. That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But flexibility , he reminded himself sternly, is the first principle ofabsorption , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun. The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold. Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship. <doc-sep>When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan. Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio. Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust. He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore. Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help. <doc-sep>But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people. But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio. After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone. They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship. It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up. In the end, the ship took forty-six people. Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <doc-sep>Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table. The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before? Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car. Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money. It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann. I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood. Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat. He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand. If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't— The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back? Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall. Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time. The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you. He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso. Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean? Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you. Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home. <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one. The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you. He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant. You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time? Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost? Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance. Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read: 4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different. Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise. You mean you come from the future? Just different time. I show you. You come with me? Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce. Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour. It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision. Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged? As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged. Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work? Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather. Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips. Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay. Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite? Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape. <doc-sep>Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott? Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made? They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them. Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff. You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here. Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything. Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car. Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body. This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick. First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way. II Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful. Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back. 'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den. No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect. They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau. The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key. The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them. The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room. The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and tothe right with the word Post . Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction. Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor? Time travel, said Snader. You like? Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose? <doc-sep>Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back. Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us. They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat. What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past. Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work. What kind of work? Jeff asked. Building the groove further back. Sounds like interesting work. Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip. Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how? Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall. He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water. Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again. Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here. Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too? I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in. <doc-sep>Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room. In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance. The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again. Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass. You really think we're going back in time? she whispered. Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet. Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another. Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us? Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop. For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again. We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would— Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724. Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions. He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it. Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream. The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere. <doc-sep>Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door. In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging. He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house. Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street. The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine. Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine. Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous. Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us. Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now. When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957. You are? Look around. Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house. Get in, Snader said curtly. Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car. Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going! Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going. Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of? What about it? It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows. Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that. III They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always. Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time. She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy! Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you? It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned. Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives. As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway. This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift— She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city. Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further. Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs. The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann. She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there. Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door. <doc-sep>A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily. Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look. Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott. The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting. He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs. Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann. Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out. Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone. Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics? The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about? Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window. Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back. That's a matter of opinion, but go on. I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not? What's chromatics? Color television? Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think. Jeff nodded. So what? The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave. Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for. <doc-sep>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say! Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily. You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge. Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see? Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front. I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way. Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon. Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann. When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go? No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper. <doc-sep>Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows. Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo? It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different. Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter. If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas. Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please. When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them. When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills. The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh? No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all. The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back. The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have. The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff. What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously. I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it? <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those? It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place? This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far? Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange? The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance? An angry muttering started among the bystanders. The policeman made up his mind. You come with me. At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten. I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished. His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare. Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten. There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation. The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him. The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this? The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country. In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated. In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy. IV He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door. Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable. Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was? No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew. All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here. The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner? You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated? If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war. Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then? The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two? Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then? Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me? So far. Keep talking. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <doc-sep>Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table. The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before? Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car. Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money. It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann. I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood. Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat. He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand. If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't— The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back? Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall. Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time. The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you. He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso. Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean? Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you. Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home. <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one. The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you. He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant. You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time? Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost? Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance. Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read: 4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different. Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise. You mean you come from the future? Just different time. I show you. You come with me? Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce. Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour. It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision. Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged? As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged. Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work? Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather. Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips. Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay. Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite? Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape. <doc-sep>Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott? Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made? They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them. Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff. You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here. Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything. Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car. Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body. This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick. First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way. II Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful. Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back. 'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den. No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect. They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau. The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key. The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them. The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room. The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and tothe right with the word Post . Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction. Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor? Time travel, said Snader. You like? Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose? <doc-sep>Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back. Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us. They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat. What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past. Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work. What kind of work? Jeff asked. Building the groove further back. Sounds like interesting work. Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip. Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how? Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall. He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water. Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again. Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here. Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too? I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in. <doc-sep>Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room. In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance. The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again. Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass. You really think we're going back in time? she whispered. Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet. Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another. Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us? Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop. For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again. We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would— Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724. Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions. He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it. Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream. The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere. <doc-sep>Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door. In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging. He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house. Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street. The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine. Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine. Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous. Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us. Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now. When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957. You are? Look around. Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house. Get in, Snader said curtly. Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car. Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going! Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going. Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of? What about it? It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows. Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that. III They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always. Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time. She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy! Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you? It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned. Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives. As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway. This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift— She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city. Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further. Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs. The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann. She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there. Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door. <doc-sep>A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily. Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look. Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott. The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting. He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs. Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann. Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out. Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone. Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics? The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about? Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window. Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back. That's a matter of opinion, but go on. I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not? What's chromatics? Color television? Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think. Jeff nodded. So what? The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave. Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for. <doc-sep>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say! Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily. You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge. Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see? Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front. I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way. Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon. Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann. When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go? No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper. <doc-sep>Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows. Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo? It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different. Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter. If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas. Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please. When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them. When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills. The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh? No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all. The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back. The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have. The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff. What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously. I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it? <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those? It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place? This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far? Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange? The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance? An angry muttering started among the bystanders. The policeman made up his mind. You come with me. At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten. I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished. His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare. Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten. There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation. The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him. The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this? The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country. In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated. In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy. IV He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door. Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable. Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was? No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew. All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here. The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner? You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated? If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war. Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then? The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two? Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then? Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me? So far. Keep talking. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <doc-sep>Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table. The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before? Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car. Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money. It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann. I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood. Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat. He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand. If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't— The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back? Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall. Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time. The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you. He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso. Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean? Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you. Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home. <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one. The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you. He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant. You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time? Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost? Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance. Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read: 4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different. Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise. You mean you come from the future? Just different time. I show you. You come with me? Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce. Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour. It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision. Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged? As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged. Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work? Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather. Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips. Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay. Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite? Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape. <doc-sep>Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott? Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made? They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them. Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff. You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here. Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything. Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car. Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body. This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick. First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way. II Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful. Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back. 'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den. No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect. They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau. The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key. The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them. The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room. The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and tothe right with the word Post . Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction. Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor? Time travel, said Snader. You like? Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose? <doc-sep>Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back. Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us. They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat. What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past. Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work. What kind of work? Jeff asked. Building the groove further back. Sounds like interesting work. Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip. Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how? Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall. He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water. Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again. Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here. Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too? I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in. <doc-sep>Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room. In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance. The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again. Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass. You really think we're going back in time? she whispered. Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet. Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another. Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us? Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop. For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again. We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would— Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724. Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions. He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it. Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream. The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere. <doc-sep>Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door. In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging. He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house. Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street. The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine. Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine. Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous. Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us. Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now. When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957. You are? Look around. Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house. Get in, Snader said curtly. Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car. Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going! Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going. Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of? What about it? It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows. Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that. III They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always. Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time. She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy! Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you? It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned. Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives. As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway. This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift— She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city. Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further. Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs. The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann. She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there. Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door. <doc-sep>A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily. Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look. Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott. The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting. He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs. Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann. Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out. Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone. Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics? The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about? Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window. Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back. That's a matter of opinion, but go on. I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not? What's chromatics? Color television? Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think. Jeff nodded. So what? The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave. Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for. <doc-sep>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say! Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily. You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge. Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see? Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front. I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way. Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon. Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann. When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go? No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper. <doc-sep>Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows. Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo? It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different. Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter. If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas. Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please. When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them. When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills. The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh? No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all. The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back. The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have. The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff. What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously. I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it? <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those? It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place? This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far? Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange? The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance? An angry muttering started among the bystanders. The policeman made up his mind. You come with me. At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten. I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished. His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare. Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten. There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation. The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him. The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this? The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country. In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated. In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy. IV He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door. Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable. Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was? No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew. All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here. The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner? You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated? If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war. Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then? The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two? Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then? Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me? So far. Keep talking. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <doc-sep>Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table. The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before? Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car. Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money. It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann. I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood. Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat. He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand. If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't— The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back? Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall. Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time. The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you. He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso. Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean? Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you. Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home. <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one. The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you. He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant. You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time? Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost? Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance. Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read: 4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different. Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise. You mean you come from the future? Just different time. I show you. You come with me? Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce. Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour. It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision. Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged? As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged. Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work? Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather. Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips. Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay. Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite? Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape. <doc-sep>Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott? Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made? They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them. Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff. You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here. Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything. Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car. Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body. This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick. First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way. II Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful. Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back. 'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den. No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect. They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau. The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key. The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them. The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room. The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and tothe right with the word Post . Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction. Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor? Time travel, said Snader. You like? Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose? <doc-sep>Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back. Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us. They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat. What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past. Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work. What kind of work? Jeff asked. Building the groove further back. Sounds like interesting work. Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip. Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how? Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall. He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water. Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again. Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here. Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too? I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in. <doc-sep>Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room. In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance. The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again. Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass. You really think we're going back in time? she whispered. Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet. Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another. Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us? Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop. For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again. We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would— Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724. Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions. He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it. Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream. The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere. <doc-sep>Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door. In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging. He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house. Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street. The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine. Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine. Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous. Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us. Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now. When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957. You are? Look around. Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house. Get in, Snader said curtly. Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car. Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going! Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going. Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of? What about it? It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows. Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that. III They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always. Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time. She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy! Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you? It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned. Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives. As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway. This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift— She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city. Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further. Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs. The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann. She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there. Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door. <doc-sep>A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily. Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look. Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott. The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting. He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs. Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann. Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out. Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone. Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics? The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about? Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window. Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back. That's a matter of opinion, but go on. I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not? What's chromatics? Color television? Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think. Jeff nodded. So what? The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave. Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for. <doc-sep>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say! Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily. You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge. Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see? Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front. I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way. Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon. Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann. When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go? No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper. <doc-sep>Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows. Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo? It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different. Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter. If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas. Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please. When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them. When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills. The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh? No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all. The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back. The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have. The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff. What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously. I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it? <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those? It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place? This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far? Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange? The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance? An angry muttering started among the bystanders. The policeman made up his mind. You come with me. At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten. I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished. His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare. Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten. There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation. The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him. The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this? The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country. In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated. In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy. IV He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door. Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable. Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was? No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew. All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here. The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner? You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated? If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war. Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then? The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two? Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then? Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me? So far. Keep talking. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <doc-sep>Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table. The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before? Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car. Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money. It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann. I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood. Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat. He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand. If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't— The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back? Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall. Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time. The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you. He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso. Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean? Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you. Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home. <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one. The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you. He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant. You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time? Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost? Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance. Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read: 4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different. Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise. You mean you come from the future? Just different time. I show you. You come with me? Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce. Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour. It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision. Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged? As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged. Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work? Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather. Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips. Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay. Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite? Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape. <doc-sep>Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott? Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made? They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them. Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff. You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here. Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything. Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car. Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body. This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick. First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way. II Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful. Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back. 'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den. No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect. They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau. The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key. The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them. The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room. The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and tothe right with the word Post . Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction. Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor? Time travel, said Snader. You like? Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose? <doc-sep>Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back. Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us. They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat. What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past. Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work. What kind of work? Jeff asked. Building the groove further back. Sounds like interesting work. Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip. Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how? Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall. He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water. Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again. Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here. Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too? I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in. <doc-sep>Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room. In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance. The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again. Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass. You really think we're going back in time? she whispered. Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet. Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another. Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us? Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop. For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again. We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would— Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724. Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions. He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it. Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream. The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere. <doc-sep>Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door. In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging. He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house. Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street. The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine. Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine. Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous. Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us. Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now. When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957. You are? Look around. Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house. Get in, Snader said curtly. Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car. Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going! Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going. Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of? What about it? It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows. Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that. III They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always. Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time. She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy! Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you? It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned. Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives. As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway. This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift— She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city. Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further. Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs. The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann. She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there. Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door. <doc-sep>A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily. Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look. Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott. The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting. He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs. Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann. Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out. Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone. Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics? The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about? Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window. Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back. That's a matter of opinion, but go on. I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not? What's chromatics? Color television? Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think. Jeff nodded. So what? The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave. Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for. <doc-sep>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say! Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily. You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge. Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see? Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front. I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way. Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon. Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann. When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go? No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper. <doc-sep>Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows. Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo? It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different. Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter. If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas. Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please. When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them. When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills. The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh? No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all. The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back. The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have. The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff. What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously. I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it? <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those? It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place? This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far? Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange? The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance? An angry muttering started among the bystanders. The policeman made up his mind. You come with me. At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten. I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished. His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare. Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten. There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation. The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him. The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this? The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country. In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated. In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy. IV He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door. Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable. Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was? No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew. All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here. The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner? You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated? If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war. Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then? The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two? Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then? Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me? So far. Keep talking. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <doc-sep>If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base. Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units. Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence. A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah? It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report? Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you. O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else. Isobar bridled. I don't know what you're talkin' about. Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you. Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to— Not, said Sparks emphatically, in my cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here. Yeah? What? Well, it's Roberts and Brown— What about 'em? They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs. Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully. Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes. Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome. He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation. Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches? Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er— I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie! He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity: Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—? I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth! The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure. Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley? Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. ' Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —' Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him! <doc-sep>Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then: That is all, he concluded. O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder. Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him! Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled. How's that? I didn't say a word— Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow? What? Why—why, yes, but— Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it? Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people.... Enough? asked Sparks. Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut! Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out. Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar. Nothing, shrugged Riley He twisted the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick? Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily. Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth. It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees. Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin. We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw. I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to— To, interrupted a crisp voice, what? Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed. N-nothing, sir. I was only saying— I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example— Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly. Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are you going? Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir. That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there? Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile— I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones? With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe. <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17? Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think— It says, stated Eagan deliberately, ' In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' Thatmeans you, Jones! But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me— But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure. He suddenly seemed to gain stature. No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement. But— said Isobar. No! Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom— Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it— Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies? Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe. Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser. All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet: They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside— No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely, no ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon! He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning. Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails— But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity. Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh— fiddlesticks ! II And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was. Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly. It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar. Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to— Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold. It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery.... You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons? Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now? Below, I guess. In his quarters. Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness. But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment. Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit. Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection. So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that! And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside. On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman. Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety. Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting. Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly. Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones? Isobar's eyebrows arched. You mean you haven't been notified? Notified of what ? Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.? I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe? And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you. We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like. I will, promised Isobar, don't worry. <doc-sep>Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him. A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months! Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley.... How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed. It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol. He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret. And the shooting? That could only be— He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat. And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies! III Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man. Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste! W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is what ? The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—? Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff! He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that. Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call. That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome! For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony. Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings! <doc-sep>Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm. Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that— Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly. You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out— But Roberts shook his head. We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it. Isobar's last hope flickered out. Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is— Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel. Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs! Roberts said, That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes? Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh! the pipes! Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle. Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies. No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things— But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome, Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! Roberts moaned. Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace! And Brown stared at him hopelessly. It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven— Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain. It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building! If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here— Stop talking! roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope. Blow! And quick! appended Brown. For here they come! Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below. He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree. Haa-a-roong! blew Isobar Jones. IV And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt! As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning! So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis. Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before! And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music! Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree. There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude. Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting LassiesO'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation. The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o'Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and— And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped, Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago! And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio. He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below. Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing! Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint: After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies arestone dead ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <doc-sep>If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base. Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units. Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence. A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah? It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report? Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you. O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else. Isobar bridled. I don't know what you're talkin' about. Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you. Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to— Not, said Sparks emphatically, in my cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here. Yeah? What? Well, it's Roberts and Brown— What about 'em? They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs. Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully. Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes. Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome. He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation. Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches? Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er— I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie! He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity: Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—? I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth! The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure. Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley? Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. ' Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —' Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him! <doc-sep>Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then: That is all, he concluded. O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder. Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him! Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled. How's that? I didn't say a word— Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow? What? Why—why, yes, but— Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it? Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people.... Enough? asked Sparks. Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut! Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out. Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar. Nothing, shrugged Riley He twisted the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick? Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily. Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth. It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees. Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin. We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw. I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to— To, interrupted a crisp voice, what? Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed. N-nothing, sir. I was only saying— I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example— Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly. Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are you going? Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir. That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there? Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile— I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones? With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe. <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17? Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think— It says, stated Eagan deliberately, ' In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' Thatmeans you, Jones! But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me— But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure. He suddenly seemed to gain stature. No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement. But— said Isobar. No! Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom— Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it— Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies? Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe. Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser. All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet: They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside— No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely, no ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon! He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning. Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails— But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity. Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh— fiddlesticks ! II And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was. Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly. It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar. Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to— Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold. It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery.... You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons? Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now? Below, I guess. In his quarters. Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness. But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment. Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit. Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection. So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that! And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside. On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman. Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety. Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting. Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly. Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones? Isobar's eyebrows arched. You mean you haven't been notified? Notified of what ? Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.? I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe? And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you. We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like. I will, promised Isobar, don't worry. <doc-sep>Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him. A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months! Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley.... How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed. It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol. He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret. And the shooting? That could only be— He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat. And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies! III Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man. Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste! W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is what ? The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—? Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff! He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that. Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call. That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome! For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony. Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings! <doc-sep>Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm. Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that— Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly. You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out— But Roberts shook his head. We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it. Isobar's last hope flickered out. Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is— Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel. Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs! Roberts said, That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes? Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh! the pipes! Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle. Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies. No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things— But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome, Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! Roberts moaned. Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace! And Brown stared at him hopelessly. It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven— Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain. It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building! If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here— Stop talking! roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope. Blow! And quick! appended Brown. For here they come! Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below. He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree. Haa-a-roong! blew Isobar Jones. IV And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt! As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning! So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis. Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before! And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music! Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree. There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude. Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting LassiesO'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation. The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o'Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and— And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped, Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago! And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio. He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below. Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing! Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint: After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies arestone dead ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <doc-sep>If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base. Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units. Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence. A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah? It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report? Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you. O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else. Isobar bridled. I don't know what you're talkin' about. Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you. Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to— Not, said Sparks emphatically, in my cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here. Yeah? What? Well, it's Roberts and Brown— What about 'em? They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs. Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully. Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes. Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome. He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation. Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches? Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er— I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie! He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity: Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—? I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth! The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure. Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley? Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. ' Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —' Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him! <doc-sep>Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then: That is all, he concluded. O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder. Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him! Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled. How's that? I didn't say a word— Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow? What? Why—why, yes, but— Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it? Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people.... Enough? asked Sparks. Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut! Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out. Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar. Nothing, shrugged Riley He twisted the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick? Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily. Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth. It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees. Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin. We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw. I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to— To, interrupted a crisp voice, what? Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed. N-nothing, sir. I was only saying— I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example— Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly. Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are you going? Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir. That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there? Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile— I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones? With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe. <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17? Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think— It says, stated Eagan deliberately, ' In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' Thatmeans you, Jones! But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me— But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure. He suddenly seemed to gain stature. No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement. But— said Isobar. No! Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom— Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it— Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies? Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe. Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser. All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet: They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside— No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely, no ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon! He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning. Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails— But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity. Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh— fiddlesticks ! II And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was. Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly. It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar. Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to— Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold. It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery.... You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons? Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now? Below, I guess. In his quarters. Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness. But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment. Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit. Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection. So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that! And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside. On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman. Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety. Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting. Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly. Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones? Isobar's eyebrows arched. You mean you haven't been notified? Notified of what ? Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.? I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe? And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you. We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like. I will, promised Isobar, don't worry. <doc-sep>Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him. A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months! Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley.... How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed. It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol. He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret. And the shooting? That could only be— He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat. And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies! III Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man. Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste! W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is what ? The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—? Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff! He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that. Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call. That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome! For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony. Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings! <doc-sep>Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm. Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that— Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly. You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out— But Roberts shook his head. We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it. Isobar's last hope flickered out. Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is— Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel. Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs! Roberts said, That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes? Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh! the pipes! Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle. Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies. No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things— But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome, Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! Roberts moaned. Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace! And Brown stared at him hopelessly. It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven— Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain. It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building! If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here— Stop talking! roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope. Blow! And quick! appended Brown. For here they come! Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below. He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree. Haa-a-roong! blew Isobar Jones. IV And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt! As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning! So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis. Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before! And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music! Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree. There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude. Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting LassiesO'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation. The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o'Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and— And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped, Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago! And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio. He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below. Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing! Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint: After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies arestone dead ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <doc-sep>If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base. Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units. Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence. A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah? It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report? Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you. O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else. Isobar bridled. I don't know what you're talkin' about. Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you. Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to— Not, said Sparks emphatically, in my cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here. Yeah? What? Well, it's Roberts and Brown— What about 'em? They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs. Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully. Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes. Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome. He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation. Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches? Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er— I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie! He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity: Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—? I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth! The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure. Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley? Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. ' Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —' Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him! <doc-sep>Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then: That is all, he concluded. O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder. Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him! Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled. How's that? I didn't say a word— Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow? What? Why—why, yes, but— Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it? Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people.... Enough? asked Sparks. Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut! Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out. Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar. Nothing, shrugged Riley He twisted the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick? Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily. Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth. It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees. Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin. We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw. I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to— To, interrupted a crisp voice, what? Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed. N-nothing, sir. I was only saying— I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example— Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly. Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are you going? Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir. That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there? Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile— I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones? With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe. <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17? Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think— It says, stated Eagan deliberately, ' In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' Thatmeans you, Jones! But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me— But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure. He suddenly seemed to gain stature. No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement. But— said Isobar. No! Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom— Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it— Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies? Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe. Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser. All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet: They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside— No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely, no ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon! He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning. Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails— But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity. Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh— fiddlesticks ! II And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was. Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly. It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar. Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to— Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold. It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery.... You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons? Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now? Below, I guess. In his quarters. Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness. But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment. Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit. Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection. So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that! And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside. On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman. Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety. Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting. Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly. Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones? Isobar's eyebrows arched. You mean you haven't been notified? Notified of what ? Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.? I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe? And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you. We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like. I will, promised Isobar, don't worry. <doc-sep>Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him. A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months! Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley.... How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed. It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol. He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret. And the shooting? That could only be— He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat. And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies! III Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man. Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste! W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is what ? The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—? Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff! He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that. Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call. That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome! For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony. Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings! <doc-sep>Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm. Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that— Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly. You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out— But Roberts shook his head. We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it. Isobar's last hope flickered out. Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is— Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel. Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs! Roberts said, That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes? Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh! the pipes! Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle. Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies. No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things— But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome, Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! Roberts moaned. Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace! And Brown stared at him hopelessly. It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven— Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain. It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building! If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here— Stop talking! roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope. Blow! And quick! appended Brown. For here they come! Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below. He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree. Haa-a-roong! blew Isobar Jones. IV And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt! As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning! So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis. Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before! And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music! Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree. There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude. Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting LassiesO'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation. The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o'Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and— And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped, Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago! And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio. He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below. Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing! Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint: After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies arestone dead ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <doc-sep>If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base. Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units. Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence. A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah? It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report? Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you. O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else. Isobar bridled. I don't know what you're talkin' about. Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you. Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to— Not, said Sparks emphatically, in my cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here. Yeah? What? Well, it's Roberts and Brown— What about 'em? They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs. Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully. Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes. Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome. He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation. Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches? Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er— I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie! He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity: Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—? I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth! The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure. Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley? Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. ' Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —' Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him! <doc-sep>Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then: That is all, he concluded. O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder. Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him! Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled. How's that? I didn't say a word— Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow? What? Why—why, yes, but— Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it? Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people.... Enough? asked Sparks. Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut! Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out. Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar. Nothing, shrugged Riley He twisted the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick? Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily. Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth. It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees. Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin. We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw. I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to— To, interrupted a crisp voice, what? Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed. N-nothing, sir. I was only saying— I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example— Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly. Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are you going? Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir. That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there? Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile— I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones? With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe. <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17? Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think— It says, stated Eagan deliberately, ' In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' Thatmeans you, Jones! But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me— But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure. He suddenly seemed to gain stature. No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement. But— said Isobar. No! Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom— Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it— Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies? Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe. Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser. All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet: They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside— No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely, no ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon! He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning. Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails— But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity. Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh— fiddlesticks ! II And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was. Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly. It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar. Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to— Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold. It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery.... You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons? Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now? Below, I guess. In his quarters. Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness. But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment. Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit. Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection. So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that! And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside. On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman. Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety. Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting. Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly. Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones? Isobar's eyebrows arched. You mean you haven't been notified? Notified of what ? Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.? I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe? And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you. We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like. I will, promised Isobar, don't worry. <doc-sep>Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him. A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months! Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley.... How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed. It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol. He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret. And the shooting? That could only be— He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat. And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies! III Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man. Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste! W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is what ? The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—? Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff! He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that. Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call. That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome! For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony. Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings! <doc-sep>Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm. Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that— Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly. You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out— But Roberts shook his head. We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it. Isobar's last hope flickered out. Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is— Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel. Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs! Roberts said, That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes? Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh! the pipes! Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle. Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies. No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things— But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome, Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! Roberts moaned. Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace! And Brown stared at him hopelessly. It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven— Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain. It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building! If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here— Stop talking! roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope. Blow! And quick! appended Brown. For here they come! Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below. He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree. Haa-a-roong! blew Isobar Jones. IV And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt! As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning! So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis. Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before! And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music! Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree. There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude. Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting LassiesO'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation. The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o'Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and— And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped, Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago! And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio. He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below. Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing! Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint: After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies arestone dead ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep> It all began on a Saturdaynight at The Space Room . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing,unforgettable experience. Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert. We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury. But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent. Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur. Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home. I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute. Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather. Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked. I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled. But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come, we're still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you? Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek. Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here. Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now. Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon. Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away. We waited. Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale. Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there— Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head. Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains? Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too. The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano. Then it happened. <doc-sep>From the entrance of TheSpace Room came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass. The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face. His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty. The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand. Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan. A moment's silence. Your plan? I echoed at last. How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already. Hummm, I thought. My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South. We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know On An AsteroidWith You ? I know everything , said JohnSmith. I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths. And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro. Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then— My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet. The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard. First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom ,and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles. But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could feel thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string. I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm. I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus. We finished On An Asteroid WithYou , modulated into Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan . We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle. If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it! And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk. Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a Zloomph . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one. I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle. Isn't right for what? I had toask. He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said. Hummm, I thought. <doc-sep>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep>Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells. John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis Zloomph automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes. Goon-Face was still cautious. Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes? Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him. Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract. Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli. Just a few minutes later tragedystruck. A reporter from the MarsportTimes ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes. This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared. Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity. We watched. John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook. John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble. John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly. The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously. John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly. He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him! I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter— We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon. He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole. I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you. We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach. How? John asked. Fat Boy gulped. Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work. No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow. <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep>Tonight is our last night at TheSpace Room . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract. Without John, we're notes in alost chord. We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith. Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his Zloomph back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy. And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep> It all began on a Saturdaynight at The Space Room . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing,unforgettable experience. Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert. We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury. But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent. Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur. Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home. I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute. Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather. Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked. I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled. But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come, we're still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you? Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek. Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here. Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now. Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon. Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away. We waited. Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale. Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there— Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head. Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains? Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too. The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano. Then it happened. <doc-sep>From the entrance of TheSpace Room came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass. The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face. His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty. The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand. Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan. A moment's silence. Your plan? I echoed at last. How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already. Hummm, I thought. My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South. We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know On An AsteroidWith You ? I know everything , said JohnSmith. I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths. And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro. Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then— My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet. The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard. First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom ,and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles. But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could feel thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string. I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm. I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus. We finished On An Asteroid WithYou , modulated into Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan . We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle. If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it! And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk. Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a Zloomph . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one. I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle. Isn't right for what? I had toask. He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said. Hummm, I thought. <doc-sep>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep>Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells. John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis Zloomph automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes. Goon-Face was still cautious. Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes? Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him. Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract. Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli. Just a few minutes later tragedystruck. A reporter from the MarsportTimes ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes. This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared. Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity. We watched. John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook. John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble. John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly. The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously. John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly. He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him! I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter— We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon. He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole. I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you. We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach. How? John asked. Fat Boy gulped. Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work. No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow. <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep>Tonight is our last night at TheSpace Room . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract. Without John, we're notes in alost chord. We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith. Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his Zloomph back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy. And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep> It all began on a Saturdaynight at The Space Room . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing,unforgettable experience. Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert. We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury. But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent. Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur. Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home. I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute. Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather. Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked. I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled. But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come, we're still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you? Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek. Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here. Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now. Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon. Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away. We waited. Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale. Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there— Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head. Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains? Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too. The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano. Then it happened. <doc-sep>From the entrance of TheSpace Room came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass. The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face. His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty. The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand. Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan. A moment's silence. Your plan? I echoed at last. How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already. Hummm, I thought. My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South. We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know On An AsteroidWith You ? I know everything , said JohnSmith. I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths. And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro. Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then— My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet. The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard. First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom ,and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles. But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could feel thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string. I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm. I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus. We finished On An Asteroid WithYou , modulated into Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan . We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle. If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it! And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk. Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a Zloomph . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one. I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle. Isn't right for what? I had toask. He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said. Hummm, I thought. <doc-sep>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep>Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells. John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis Zloomph automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes. Goon-Face was still cautious. Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes? Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him. Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract. Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli. Just a few minutes later tragedystruck. A reporter from the MarsportTimes ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes. This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared. Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity. We watched. John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook. John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble. John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly. The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously. John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly. He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him! I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter— We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon. He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole. I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you. We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach. How? John asked. Fat Boy gulped. Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work. No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow. <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep>Tonight is our last night at TheSpace Room . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract. Without John, we're notes in alost chord. We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith. Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his Zloomph back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy. And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep> It all began on a Saturdaynight at The Space Room . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing,unforgettable experience. Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert. We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury. But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent. Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur. Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home. I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute. Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather. Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked. I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled. But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come, we're still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you? Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek. Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here. Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now. Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon. Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away. We waited. Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale. Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there— Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head. Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains? Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too. The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano. Then it happened. <doc-sep>From the entrance of TheSpace Room came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass. The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face. His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty. The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand. Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan. A moment's silence. Your plan? I echoed at last. How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already. Hummm, I thought. My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South. We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know On An AsteroidWith You ? I know everything , said JohnSmith. I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths. And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro. Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then— My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet. The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard. First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom ,and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles. But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could feel thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string. I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm. I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus. We finished On An Asteroid WithYou , modulated into Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan . We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle. If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it! And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk. Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a Zloomph . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one. I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle. Isn't right for what? I had toask. He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said. Hummm, I thought. <doc-sep>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep>Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells. John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis Zloomph automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes. Goon-Face was still cautious. Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes? Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him. Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract. Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli. Just a few minutes later tragedystruck. A reporter from the MarsportTimes ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes. This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared. Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity. We watched. John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook. John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble. John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly. The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously. John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly. He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him! I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter— We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon. He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole. I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you. We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach. How? John asked. Fat Boy gulped. Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work. No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow. <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep>Tonight is our last night at TheSpace Room . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract. Without John, we're notes in alost chord. We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith. Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his Zloomph back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy. And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep> It all began on a Saturdaynight at The Space Room . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing,unforgettable experience. Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert. We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury. But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent. Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur. Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home. I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute. Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather. Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked. I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled. But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come, we're still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you? Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek. Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here. Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now. Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon. Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away. We waited. Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale. Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there— Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head. Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains? Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too. The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano. Then it happened. <doc-sep>From the entrance of TheSpace Room came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass. The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face. His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty. The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand. Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan. A moment's silence. Your plan? I echoed at last. How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already. Hummm, I thought. My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South. We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know On An AsteroidWith You ? I know everything , said JohnSmith. I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths. And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro. Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then— My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet. The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard. First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom ,and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles. But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could feel thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string. I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm. I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus. We finished On An Asteroid WithYou , modulated into Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan . We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle. If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it! And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk. Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a Zloomph . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one. I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle. Isn't right for what? I had toask. He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said. Hummm, I thought. <doc-sep>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep>Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells. John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis Zloomph automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes. Goon-Face was still cautious. Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes? Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him. Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract. Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli. Just a few minutes later tragedystruck. A reporter from the MarsportTimes ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes. This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared. Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity. We watched. John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook. John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble. John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly. The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously. John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly. He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him! I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter— We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon. He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole. I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you. We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach. How? John asked. Fat Boy gulped. Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work. No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow. <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep>Tonight is our last night at TheSpace Room . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract. Without John, we're notes in alost chord. We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith. Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his Zloomph back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy. And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. THE VALLEY By Richard Stockham Illustrated by Ed Emsh If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener. The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish. Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun. The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit! Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in! The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship. I can't tell them, said the man. Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me? The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael! Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder. A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship. They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—. He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here. He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over. No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them. We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation. She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael. He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in. <doc-sep>The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away. The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight. A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff. And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end. Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence. A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet. The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas. And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back. The silence did not change. The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying? A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it. Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials. Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true! We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be. The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands. There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be all right ! Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship. <doc-sep>They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare. The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof. Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance. Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons. The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being. Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions. Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship. They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible. And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth. The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes. The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace. Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships. And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness. Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea. At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume. Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord.... Lights flashed through the room and the picture died. <doc-sep>Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling. There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years. Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you. Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and everyone who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility. I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for. What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria. But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace. We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it. The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away. And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life. The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all? None. Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader? Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President. There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again. We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people. Michael and Mary were silent. You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision. As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains. <doc-sep>In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight. Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea. We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space. You could probably still go, she said quietly. He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you. She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away. He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use? I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison. But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice. Maybe they'll have to give us a choice. What're you talking about? They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age. He waited. They can't stand the sight of people dying violently. Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket. These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice. He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them? He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth? Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this. He waited, frowning, watching her intently. I'm—going to have a child. His face went blank. Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full. No, he said thickly. I can't believe it. It's true. He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside. Yes, I can see it is. I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael. He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible. Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I had to do. Some— real lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I had to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this. Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done. No, she said quietly. I don't think they could. And so this will be just for us . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see. They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim. <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen: This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right. Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie. Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands. What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room. I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again. Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now. And then there was the sound of the door opening. They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers. <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders. The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet. The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one. Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society. He paused. Is there anything you wish to say? Yes, there is. Proceed. Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat. Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure. The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks. We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces. If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born. Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see. The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still. Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle. Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them. Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death. Stop! he said quietly. They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back. If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you. The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror. I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty! We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves. You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you. We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now! The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want? Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death. The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... Let them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them.... There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached. Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again. We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies. A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes. You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains. There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly! Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor. <doc-sep>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road. Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation. If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us? I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison. She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road. How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me? All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself. Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland? He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness. They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust. I'm getting out, she said. I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When? They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill. The air smells clean, he said. The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it. Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback. Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop. He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream? I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream. He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet. I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities. He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly: Mary! She stopped, whirling around. He was staring down at her feet. She followed his gaze. It's grass! He bent down. Three blades. She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades. They're new, he said. They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject. He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center. Oh! Her hand found his. They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside. Mary knelt down and drank from the spring. It's so cool. It must come from deep down. It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down. We can live here, Michael! Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child. Yes! she said. Oh yes! And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them. They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own. There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. THE VALLEY By Richard Stockham Illustrated by Ed Emsh If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener. The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish. Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun. The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit! Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in! The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship. I can't tell them, said the man. Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me? The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael! Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder. A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship. They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—. He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here. He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over. No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them. We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation. She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael. He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in. <doc-sep>The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away. The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight. A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff. And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end. Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence. A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet. The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas. And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back. The silence did not change. The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying? A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it. Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials. Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true! We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be. The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands. There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be all right ! Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship. <doc-sep>They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare. The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof. Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance. Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons. The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being. Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions. Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship. They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible. And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth. The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes. The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace. Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships. And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness. Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea. At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume. Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord.... Lights flashed through the room and the picture died. <doc-sep>Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling. There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years. Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you. Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and everyone who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility. I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for. What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria. But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace. We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it. The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away. And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life. The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all? None. Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader? Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President. There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again. We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people. Michael and Mary were silent. You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision. As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains. <doc-sep>In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight. Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea. We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space. You could probably still go, she said quietly. He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you. She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away. He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use? I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison. But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice. Maybe they'll have to give us a choice. What're you talking about? They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age. He waited. They can't stand the sight of people dying violently. Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket. These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice. He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them? He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth? Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this. He waited, frowning, watching her intently. I'm—going to have a child. His face went blank. Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full. No, he said thickly. I can't believe it. It's true. He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside. Yes, I can see it is. I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael. He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible. Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I had to do. Some— real lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I had to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this. Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done. No, she said quietly. I don't think they could. And so this will be just for us . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see. They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim. <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen: This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right. Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie. Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands. What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room. I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again. Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now. And then there was the sound of the door opening. They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers. <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders. The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet. The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one. Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society. He paused. Is there anything you wish to say? Yes, there is. Proceed. Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat. Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure. The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks. We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces. If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born. Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see. The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still. Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle. Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them. Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death. Stop! he said quietly. They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back. If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you. The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror. I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty! We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves. You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you. We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now! The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want? Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death. The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... Let them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them.... There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached. Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again. We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies. A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes. You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains. There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly! Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor. <doc-sep>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road. Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation. If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us? I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison. She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road. How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me? All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself. Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland? He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness. They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust. I'm getting out, she said. I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When? They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill. The air smells clean, he said. The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it. Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback. Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop. He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream? I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream. He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet. I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities. He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly: Mary! She stopped, whirling around. He was staring down at her feet. She followed his gaze. It's grass! He bent down. Three blades. She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades. They're new, he said. They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject. He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center. Oh! Her hand found his. They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside. Mary knelt down and drank from the spring. It's so cool. It must come from deep down. It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down. We can live here, Michael! Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child. Yes! she said. Oh yes! And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them. They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own. There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. THE VALLEY By Richard Stockham Illustrated by Ed Emsh If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener. The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish. Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun. The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit! Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in! The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship. I can't tell them, said the man. Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me? The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael! Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder. A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship. They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—. He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here. He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over. No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them. We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation. She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael. He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in. <doc-sep>The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away. The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight. A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff. And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end. Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence. A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet. The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas. And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back. The silence did not change. The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying? A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it. Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials. Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true! We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be. The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands. There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be all right ! Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship. <doc-sep>They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare. The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof. Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance. Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons. The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being. Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions. Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship. They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible. And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth. The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes. The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace. Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships. And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness. Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea. At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume. Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord.... Lights flashed through the room and the picture died. <doc-sep>Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling. There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years. Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you. Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and everyone who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility. I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for. What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria. But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace. We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it. The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away. And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life. The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all? None. Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader? Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President. There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again. We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people. Michael and Mary were silent. You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision. As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains. <doc-sep>In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight. Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea. We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space. You could probably still go, she said quietly. He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you. She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away. He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use? I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison. But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice. Maybe they'll have to give us a choice. What're you talking about? They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age. He waited. They can't stand the sight of people dying violently. Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket. These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice. He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them? He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth? Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this. He waited, frowning, watching her intently. I'm—going to have a child. His face went blank. Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full. No, he said thickly. I can't believe it. It's true. He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside. Yes, I can see it is. I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael. He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible. Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I had to do. Some— real lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I had to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this. Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done. No, she said quietly. I don't think they could. And so this will be just for us . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see. They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim. <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen: This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right. Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie. Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands. What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room. I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again. Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now. And then there was the sound of the door opening. They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers. <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders. The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet. The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one. Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society. He paused. Is there anything you wish to say? Yes, there is. Proceed. Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat. Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure. The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks. We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces. If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born. Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see. The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still. Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle. Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them. Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death. Stop! he said quietly. They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back. If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you. The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror. I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty! We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves. You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you. We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now! The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want? Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death. The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... Let them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them.... There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached. Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again. We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies. A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes. You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains. There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly! Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor. <doc-sep>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road. Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation. If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us? I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison. She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road. How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me? All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself. Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland? He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness. They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust. I'm getting out, she said. I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When? They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill. The air smells clean, he said. The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it. Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback. Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop. He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream? I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream. He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet. I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities. He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly: Mary! She stopped, whirling around. He was staring down at her feet. She followed his gaze. It's grass! He bent down. Three blades. She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades. They're new, he said. They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject. He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center. Oh! Her hand found his. They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside. Mary knelt down and drank from the spring. It's so cool. It must come from deep down. It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down. We can live here, Michael! Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child. Yes! she said. Oh yes! And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them. They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own. There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. THE VALLEY By Richard Stockham Illustrated by Ed Emsh If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener. The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish. Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun. The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit! Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in! The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship. I can't tell them, said the man. Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me? The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael! Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder. A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship. They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—. He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here. He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over. No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them. We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation. She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael. He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in. <doc-sep>The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away. The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight. A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff. And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end. Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence. A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet. The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas. And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back. The silence did not change. The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying? A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it. Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials. Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true! We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be. The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands. There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be all right ! Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship. <doc-sep>They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare. The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof. Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance. Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons. The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being. Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions. Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship. They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible. And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth. The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes. The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace. Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships. And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness. Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea. At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume. Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord.... Lights flashed through the room and the picture died. <doc-sep>Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling. There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years. Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you. Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and everyone who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility. I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for. What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria. But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace. We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it. The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away. And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life. The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all? None. Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader? Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President. There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again. We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people. Michael and Mary were silent. You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision. As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains. <doc-sep>In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight. Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea. We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space. You could probably still go, she said quietly. He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you. She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away. He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use? I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison. But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice. Maybe they'll have to give us a choice. What're you talking about? They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age. He waited. They can't stand the sight of people dying violently. Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket. These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice. He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them? He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth? Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this. He waited, frowning, watching her intently. I'm—going to have a child. His face went blank. Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full. No, he said thickly. I can't believe it. It's true. He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside. Yes, I can see it is. I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael. He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible. Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I had to do. Some— real lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I had to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this. Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done. No, she said quietly. I don't think they could. And so this will be just for us . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see. They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim. <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen: This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right. Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie. Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands. What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room. I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again. Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now. And then there was the sound of the door opening. They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers. <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders. The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet. The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one. Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society. He paused. Is there anything you wish to say? Yes, there is. Proceed. Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat. Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure. The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks. We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces. If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born. Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see. The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still. Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle. Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them. Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death. Stop! he said quietly. They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back. If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you. The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror. I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty! We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves. You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you. We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now! The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want? Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death. The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... Let them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them.... There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached. Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again. We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies. A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes. You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains. There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly! Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor. <doc-sep>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road. Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation. If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us? I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison. She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road. How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me? All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself. Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland? He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness. They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust. I'm getting out, she said. I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When? They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill. The air smells clean, he said. The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it. Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback. Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop. He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream? I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream. He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet. I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities. He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly: Mary! She stopped, whirling around. He was staring down at her feet. She followed his gaze. It's grass! He bent down. Three blades. She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades. They're new, he said. They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject. He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center. Oh! Her hand found his. They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside. Mary knelt down and drank from the spring. It's so cool. It must come from deep down. It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down. We can live here, Michael! Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child. Yes! she said. Oh yes! And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them. They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own. There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. THE VALLEY By Richard Stockham Illustrated by Ed Emsh If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener. The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish. Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun. The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit! Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in! The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship. I can't tell them, said the man. Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me? The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael! Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder. A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship. They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—. He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here. He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over. No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them. We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation. She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael. He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in. <doc-sep>The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away. The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight. A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff. And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end. Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence. A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet. The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas. And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back. The silence did not change. The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying? A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it. Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials. Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true! We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be. The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands. There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be all right ! Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship. <doc-sep>They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare. The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof. Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance. Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons. The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being. Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions. Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship. They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible. And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth. The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes. The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace. Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships. And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness. Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea. At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume. Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord.... Lights flashed through the room and the picture died. <doc-sep>Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling. There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years. Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you. Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and everyone who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility. I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for. What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria. But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace. We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it. The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away. And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life. The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all? None. Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader? Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President. There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again. We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people. Michael and Mary were silent. You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision. As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains. <doc-sep>In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight. Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea. We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space. You could probably still go, she said quietly. He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you. She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away. He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use? I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison. But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice. Maybe they'll have to give us a choice. What're you talking about? They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age. He waited. They can't stand the sight of people dying violently. Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket. These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice. He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them? He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth? Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this. He waited, frowning, watching her intently. I'm—going to have a child. His face went blank. Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full. No, he said thickly. I can't believe it. It's true. He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside. Yes, I can see it is. I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael. He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible. Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I had to do. Some— real lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I had to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this. Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done. No, she said quietly. I don't think they could. And so this will be just for us . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see. They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim. <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen: This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right. Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie. Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands. What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room. I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again. Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now. And then there was the sound of the door opening. They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers. <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders. The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet. The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one. Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society. He paused. Is there anything you wish to say? Yes, there is. Proceed. Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat. Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure. The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks. We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces. If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born. Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see. The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still. Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle. Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them. Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death. Stop! he said quietly. They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back. If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you. The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror. I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty! We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves. You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you. We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now! The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want? Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death. The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... Let them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them.... There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached. Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again. We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies. A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes. You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains. There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly! Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor. <doc-sep>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road. Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation. If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us? I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison. She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road. How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me? All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself. Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland? He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness. They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust. I'm getting out, she said. I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When? They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill. The air smells clean, he said. The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it. Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback. Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop. He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream? I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream. He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet. I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities. He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly: Mary! She stopped, whirling around. He was staring down at her feet. She followed his gaze. It's grass! He bent down. Three blades. She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades. They're new, he said. They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject. He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center. Oh! Her hand found his. They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside. Mary knelt down and drank from the spring. It's so cool. It must come from deep down. It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down. We can live here, Michael! Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child. Yes! she said. Oh yes! And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them. They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own. There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <doc-sep>There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please. She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing. Danny, you fumbler! she screamed. Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way. I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin. I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white. Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him— stop him! He'shating again! I can't stand it! Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia. I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall. Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission. I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible. She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself. Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails. No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited? Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all? Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them. <doc-sep>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet. I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair. You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast. He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about? The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand? Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him. The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him. Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye. I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out. You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't— Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either. No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me. <doc-sep>I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but— He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far. Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding. Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she knew but she didn't really understand .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me. <doc-sep>Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos. Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing. We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house. And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home. So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while. I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that. About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective. I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them. <doc-sep>I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say we —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy. Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more. I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power? For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six? I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility. However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us. <doc-sep>On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm. Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her. Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened. Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap. One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there! This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid? Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going. But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war. Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case. There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament. They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place. Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race. <doc-sep>It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain. I looked at her. It is an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless? I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other. My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on. I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather. Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything. I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin. My name's Lucy, she giggled. No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern. Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified! So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself. However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication. If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said, you certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe you . She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world. <doc-sep>Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me. The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought. Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar. Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more! He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him. Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers. I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors. But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds. Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something. I felt ... well, good. <doc-sep>I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal is recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it. Recorded? I asked, a little jealously. Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil? I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess. She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers. In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that. When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly. I looked at her. You are? I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension. I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done. Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me. They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give. I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them. They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me. <doc-sep>The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me. Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody. Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day. I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people? Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work. Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy? She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and— It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean— And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted.... Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again. Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <doc-sep>There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please. She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing. Danny, you fumbler! she screamed. Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way. I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin. I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white. Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him— stop him! He'shating again! I can't stand it! Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia. I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall. Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission. I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible. She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself. Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails. No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited? Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all? Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them. <doc-sep>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet. I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair. You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast. He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about? The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand? Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him. The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him. Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye. I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out. You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't— Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either. No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me. <doc-sep>I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but— He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far. Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding. Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she knew but she didn't really understand .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me. <doc-sep>Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos. Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing. We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house. And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home. So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while. I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that. About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective. I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them. <doc-sep>I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say we —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy. Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more. I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power? For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six? I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility. However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us. <doc-sep>On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm. Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her. Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened. Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap. One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there! This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid? Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going. But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war. Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case. There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament. They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place. Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race. <doc-sep>It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain. I looked at her. It is an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless? I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other. My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on. I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather. Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything. I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin. My name's Lucy, she giggled. No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern. Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified! So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself. However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication. If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said, you certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe you . She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world. <doc-sep>Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me. The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought. Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar. Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more! He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him. Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers. I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors. But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds. Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something. I felt ... well, good. <doc-sep>I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal is recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it. Recorded? I asked, a little jealously. Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil? I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess. She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers. In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that. When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly. I looked at her. You are? I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension. I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done. Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me. They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give. I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them. They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me. <doc-sep>The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me. Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody. Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day. I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people? Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work. Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy? She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and— It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean— And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted.... Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again. Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <doc-sep>There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please. She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing. Danny, you fumbler! she screamed. Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way. I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin. I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white. Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him— stop him! He'shating again! I can't stand it! Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia. I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall. Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission. I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible. She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself. Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails. No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited? Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all? Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them. <doc-sep>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet. I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair. You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast. He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about? The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand? Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him. The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him. Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye. I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out. You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't— Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either. No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me. <doc-sep>I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but— He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far. Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding. Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she knew but she didn't really understand .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me. <doc-sep>Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos. Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing. We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house. And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home. So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while. I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that. About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective. I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them. <doc-sep>I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say we —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy. Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more. I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power? For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six? I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility. However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us. <doc-sep>On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm. Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her. Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened. Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap. One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there! This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid? Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going. But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war. Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case. There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament. They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place. Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race. <doc-sep>It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain. I looked at her. It is an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless? I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other. My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on. I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather. Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything. I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin. My name's Lucy, she giggled. No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern. Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified! So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself. However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication. If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said, you certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe you . She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world. <doc-sep>Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me. The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought. Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar. Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more! He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him. Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers. I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors. But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds. Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something. I felt ... well, good. <doc-sep>I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal is recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it. Recorded? I asked, a little jealously. Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil? I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess. She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers. In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that. When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly. I looked at her. You are? I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension. I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done. Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me. They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give. I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them. They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me. <doc-sep>The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me. Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody. Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day. I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people? Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work. Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy? She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and— It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean— And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted.... Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again. Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <doc-sep>There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please. She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing. Danny, you fumbler! she screamed. Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way. I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin. I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white. Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him— stop him! He'shating again! I can't stand it! Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia. I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall. Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission. I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible. She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself. Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails. No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited? Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all? Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them. <doc-sep>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet. I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair. You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast. He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about? The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand? Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him. The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him. Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye. I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out. You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't— Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either. No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me. <doc-sep>I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but— He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far. Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding. Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she knew but she didn't really understand .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me. <doc-sep>Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos. Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing. We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house. And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home. So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while. I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that. About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective. I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them. <doc-sep>I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say we —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy. Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more. I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power? For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six? I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility. However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us. <doc-sep>On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm. Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her. Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened. Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap. One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there! This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid? Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going. But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war. Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case. There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament. They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place. Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race. <doc-sep>It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain. I looked at her. It is an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless? I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other. My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on. I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather. Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything. I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin. My name's Lucy, she giggled. No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern. Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified! So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself. However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication. If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said, you certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe you . She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world. <doc-sep>Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me. The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought. Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar. Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more! He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him. Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers. I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors. But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds. Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something. I felt ... well, good. <doc-sep>I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal is recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it. Recorded? I asked, a little jealously. Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil? I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess. She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers. In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that. When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly. I looked at her. You are? I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension. I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done. Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me. They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give. I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them. They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me. <doc-sep>The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me. Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody. Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day. I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people? Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work. Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy? She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and— It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean— And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted.... Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again. Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <doc-sep>There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please. She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing. Danny, you fumbler! she screamed. Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way. I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin. I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white. Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him— stop him! He'shating again! I can't stand it! Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia. I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall. Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission. I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible. She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself. Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails. No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited? Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all? Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them. <doc-sep>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet. I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair. You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast. He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about? The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand? Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him. The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him. Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye. I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out. You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't— Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either. No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me. <doc-sep>I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but— He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far. Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding. Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she knew but she didn't really understand .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me. <doc-sep>Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos. Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing. We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house. And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home. So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while. I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that. About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective. I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them. <doc-sep>I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say we —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy. Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more. I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power? For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six? I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility. However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us. <doc-sep>On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm. Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her. Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened. Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap. One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there! This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid? Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going. But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war. Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case. There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament. They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place. Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race. <doc-sep>It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain. I looked at her. It is an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless? I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other. My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on. I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather. Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything. I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin. My name's Lucy, she giggled. No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern. Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified! So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself. However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication. If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said, you certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe you . She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world. <doc-sep>Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me. The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought. Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar. Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more! He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him. Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers. I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors. But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds. Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something. I felt ... well, good. <doc-sep>I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal is recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it. Recorded? I asked, a little jealously. Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil? I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess. She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers. In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that. When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly. I looked at her. You are? I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension. I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done. Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me. They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give. I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them. They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me. <doc-sep>The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me. Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody. Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day. I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people? Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work. Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy? She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and— It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean— And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted.... Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again. Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <doc-sep>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls. Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since. No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know? He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years.... Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least. Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him. But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be— If the ship left and some of them stayed. Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know. How about the other planets? Ball asked. The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO 2 atmosphere. How about moons? Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out. <doc-sep>The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone. The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try. At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below. Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently. After a while he saw a city. The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead. He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved. Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing. No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears. The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive. After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these? Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side. We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits. He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered. When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move. Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot. Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past. <doc-sep>Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms. Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement. A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen. The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do. The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already. While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise. What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots! They were. Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist. Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite. Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens. Well, what do we do now? Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV. Can we go down? Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives. Ball gulped. I don't follow you. They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen. Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking. The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty. And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone. He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost? An outpost! He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble.... The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say: Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve.... <doc-sep>Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips. Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices. We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve. And then the robots sent a picture . As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand. Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped. When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear. While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands. Greetings, he said, because it was what they had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars. It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message? No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on: We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet. <doc-sep>Steffens had not realized that there were so many. They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out. One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit. Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else. Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land. Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve. Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But.... Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically. Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently. They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask. For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff. They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly. We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data. Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action. We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest. Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work. The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail. It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical. It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were. <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat. The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well. Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens. Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing. Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too. There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad? Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do. The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head. I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures. The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted. I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length: We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance. It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers. The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush: Can you tell us where the Makers are? Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty. The Makers—are not here. Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on: The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time. Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind. War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled. He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill. Were they immortal? <doc-sep>Would you like to see a doctor? Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring. No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently. Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually? By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive. Steffens tried to understand that. It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb. Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled. You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years. Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless— He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV. Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all. His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order. Do you build yourselves? the exec asked. Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering. No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the Factory . The Factory? Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it? Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly. Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here. It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace. <doc-sep>The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave. Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking. Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded. But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing. At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area. It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive. Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life. He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had. <doc-sep>What do you do ? Steffens asked. Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return. When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so. Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back. If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic. It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built? Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all. Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith. But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God. God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God? Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered: It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you. Steffens understood. He nodded. The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God. It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself. But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <doc-sep>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls. Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since. No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know? He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years.... Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least. Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him. But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be— If the ship left and some of them stayed. Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know. How about the other planets? Ball asked. The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO 2 atmosphere. How about moons? Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out. <doc-sep>The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone. The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try. At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below. Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently. After a while he saw a city. The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead. He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved. Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing. No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears. The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive. After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these? Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side. We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits. He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered. When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move. Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot. Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past. <doc-sep>Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms. Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement. A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen. The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do. The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already. While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise. What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots! They were. Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist. Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite. Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens. Well, what do we do now? Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV. Can we go down? Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives. Ball gulped. I don't follow you. They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen. Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking. The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty. And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone. He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost? An outpost! He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble.... The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say: Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve.... <doc-sep>Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips. Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices. We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve. And then the robots sent a picture . As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand. Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped. When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear. While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands. Greetings, he said, because it was what they had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars. It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message? No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on: We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet. <doc-sep>Steffens had not realized that there were so many. They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out. One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit. Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else. Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land. Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve. Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But.... Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically. Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently. They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask. For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff. They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly. We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data. Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action. We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest. Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work. The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail. It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical. It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were. <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat. The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well. Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens. Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing. Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too. There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad? Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do. The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head. I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures. The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted. I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length: We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance. It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers. The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush: Can you tell us where the Makers are? Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty. The Makers—are not here. Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on: The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time. Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind. War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled. He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill. Were they immortal? <doc-sep>Would you like to see a doctor? Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring. No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently. Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually? By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive. Steffens tried to understand that. It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb. Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled. You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years. Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless— He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV. Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all. His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order. Do you build yourselves? the exec asked. Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering. No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the Factory . The Factory? Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it? Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly. Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here. It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace. <doc-sep>The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave. Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking. Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded. But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing. At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area. It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive. Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life. He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had. <doc-sep>What do you do ? Steffens asked. Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return. When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so. Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back. If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic. It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built? Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all. Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith. But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God. God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God? Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered: It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you. Steffens understood. He nodded. The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God. It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself. But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <doc-sep>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls. Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since. No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know? He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years.... Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least. Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him. But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be— If the ship left and some of them stayed. Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know. How about the other planets? Ball asked. The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO 2 atmosphere. How about moons? Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out. <doc-sep>The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone. The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try. At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below. Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently. After a while he saw a city. The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead. He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved. Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing. No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears. The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive. After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these? Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side. We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits. He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered. When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move. Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot. Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past. <doc-sep>Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms. Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement. A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen. The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do. The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already. While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise. What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots! They were. Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist. Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite. Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens. Well, what do we do now? Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV. Can we go down? Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives. Ball gulped. I don't follow you. They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen. Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking. The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty. And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone. He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost? An outpost! He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble.... The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say: Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve.... <doc-sep>Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips. Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices. We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve. And then the robots sent a picture . As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand. Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped. When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear. While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands. Greetings, he said, because it was what they had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars. It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message? No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on: We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet. <doc-sep>Steffens had not realized that there were so many. They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out. One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit. Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else. Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land. Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve. Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But.... Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically. Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently. They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask. For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff. They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly. We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data. Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action. We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest. Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work. The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail. It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical. It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were. <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat. The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well. Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens. Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing. Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too. There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad? Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do. The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head. I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures. The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted. I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length: We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance. It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers. The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush: Can you tell us where the Makers are? Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty. The Makers—are not here. Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on: The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time. Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind. War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled. He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill. Were they immortal? <doc-sep>Would you like to see a doctor? Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring. No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently. Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually? By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive. Steffens tried to understand that. It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb. Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled. You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years. Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless— He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV. Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all. His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order. Do you build yourselves? the exec asked. Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering. No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the Factory . The Factory? Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it? Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly. Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here. It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace. <doc-sep>The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave. Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking. Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded. But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing. At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area. It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive. Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life. He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had. <doc-sep>What do you do ? Steffens asked. Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return. When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so. Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back. If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic. It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built? Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all. Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith. But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God. God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God? Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered: It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you. Steffens understood. He nodded. The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God. It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself. But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <doc-sep>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls. Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since. No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know? He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years.... Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least. Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him. But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be— If the ship left and some of them stayed. Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know. How about the other planets? Ball asked. The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO 2 atmosphere. How about moons? Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out. <doc-sep>The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone. The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try. At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below. Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently. After a while he saw a city. The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead. He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved. Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing. No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears. The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive. After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these? Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side. We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits. He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered. When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move. Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot. Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past. <doc-sep>Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms. Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement. A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen. The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do. The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already. While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise. What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots! They were. Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist. Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite. Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens. Well, what do we do now? Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV. Can we go down? Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives. Ball gulped. I don't follow you. They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen. Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking. The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty. And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone. He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost? An outpost! He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble.... The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say: Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve.... <doc-sep>Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips. Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices. We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve. And then the robots sent a picture . As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand. Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped. When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear. While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands. Greetings, he said, because it was what they had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars. It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message? No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on: We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet. <doc-sep>Steffens had not realized that there were so many. They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out. One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit. Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else. Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land. Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve. Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But.... Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically. Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently. They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask. For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff. They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly. We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data. Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action. We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest. Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work. The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail. It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical. It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were. <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat. The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well. Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens. Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing. Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too. There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad? Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do. The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head. I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures. The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted. I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length: We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance. It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers. The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush: Can you tell us where the Makers are? Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty. The Makers—are not here. Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on: The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time. Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind. War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled. He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill. Were they immortal? <doc-sep>Would you like to see a doctor? Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring. No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently. Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually? By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive. Steffens tried to understand that. It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb. Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled. You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years. Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless— He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV. Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all. His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order. Do you build yourselves? the exec asked. Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering. No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the Factory . The Factory? Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it? Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly. Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here. It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace. <doc-sep>The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave. Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking. Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded. But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing. At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area. It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive. Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life. He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had. <doc-sep>What do you do ? Steffens asked. Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return. When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so. Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back. If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic. It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built? Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all. Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith. But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God. God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God? Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered: It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you. Steffens understood. He nodded. The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God. It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself. But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <doc-sep>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls. Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since. No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know? He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years.... Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least. Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him. But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be— If the ship left and some of them stayed. Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know. How about the other planets? Ball asked. The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO 2 atmosphere. How about moons? Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out. <doc-sep>The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone. The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try. At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below. Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently. After a while he saw a city. The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead. He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved. Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing. No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears. The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive. After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these? Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side. We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits. He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered. When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move. Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot. Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past. <doc-sep>Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms. Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement. A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen. The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do. The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already. While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise. What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots! They were. Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist. Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite. Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens. Well, what do we do now? Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV. Can we go down? Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives. Ball gulped. I don't follow you. They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen. Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking. The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty. And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone. He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost? An outpost! He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble.... The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say: Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve.... <doc-sep>Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips. Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices. We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve. And then the robots sent a picture . As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand. Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped. When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear. While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands. Greetings, he said, because it was what they had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars. It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message? No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on: We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet. <doc-sep>Steffens had not realized that there were so many. They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out. One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit. Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else. Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land. Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve. Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But.... Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically. Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently. They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask. For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff. They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly. We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data. Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action. We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest. Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work. The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail. It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical. It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were. <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat. The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well. Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens. Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing. Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too. There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad? Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do. The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head. I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures. The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted. I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length: We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance. It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers. The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush: Can you tell us where the Makers are? Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty. The Makers—are not here. Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on: The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time. Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind. War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled. He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill. Were they immortal? <doc-sep>Would you like to see a doctor? Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring. No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently. Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually? By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive. Steffens tried to understand that. It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb. Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled. You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years. Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless— He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV. Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all. His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order. Do you build yourselves? the exec asked. Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering. No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the Factory . The Factory? Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it? Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly. Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here. It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace. <doc-sep>The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave. Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking. Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded. But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing. At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area. It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive. Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life. He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had. <doc-sep>What do you do ? Steffens asked. Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return. When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so. Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back. If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic. It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built? Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all. Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith. But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God. God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God? Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered: It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you. Steffens understood. He nodded. The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God. It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself. But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

<s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

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

<s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s>

The story starts with a husband, George Faircloth, who is unsatisfied with his marriage, trying to escape from his wife without communicating with her. Throughout the story, he uses Prime Technology, a technology that can produce an identical duplicate of a human, to deal with his wife’s complaints and other annoying interactions with him. However, when he finds out that George Prime, his duplicate, gets along better with his wife than him and finally leaves him behind together, he realizes what he has done wrong. When he feels desperate, his wife’s duplicate comes to stay with him, and he finally finds his wife’s duplicate better than his wife. The central theme of the story is the marriage relationship. The beginning of the story reveals a marriage failure where both the husband and the wife are not satisfied with each other after years-long marriage. Their solutions are not to communicate with each other or change for the better but to escape from each other through Prime technology. In the middle of the story, where George Faircloth once finds his wife adorable again due to George Prime’s effort, it shows the importance of communication and mutual support in the marriage, which is lacking in their relationship. The ending of the story, where both of them live with the duplicates of each other, indicates that a good relationship in marriage is to listen to and satisfy what each other needs with proper communication.

<s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s>

The theme of capitalism is explored throughout the story by the greed of the racketeer, Tony Carmen, and how he prefers profits over the environment. In the story, Professor Venetti creates a machine that can easily decompose anything without knowing how it works and where the decomposed particles go. His process of creating the device is also not carefully examined under the safety rules. Despite knowing these manufacturing facts and the uncertainty of its consequences, Tony Carmen makes this machine into a business and sells it for a considerable profit, with the collaboration of Professor Venetti. The theme of capitalism is shown through the preference for profits over safety when seeking profits from a product. It is also explored through Tony’s dealings with business corporates and how he attracts business corporations’ attention to sell their products. Revealed by Tony’s testimony, big business corporations would have detectives and their sources of information to buy the inventions and sell them. Finally, the mechanism of the business world and the dark side of capitalism are shown through Tony’s plan to sell the products and all the dirty work behind it when Professor Venetti’s secretary is reading the letters regarding their business matter from several organizations.

<s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s>

The story follows the journey of Martin Isherwood, a man whose dream is to become a rocket pilot. Everything he does is to reach that dream. When he turns 17, he cuts away from his family and starts to follow his dream. He participates in different plane races in order to become a pilot. He continuously shows his determination to become a pilot to everyone he meets, and doesn’t care what they say. Mostly everyone tells Ish that he should quit on this path, that he has nothing to prove and that there is no reason to continue pursuing his dream. He doesn’t heed this advice and continues convincing people as to why he should be a rocket pilot. At the end, he manages to do the trip, but does it while thinking that he had already done it before, therefore taking out all the excitement that the first trip would have had. He ends up never driving a rocket again, and dies in the rocket station.

<s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s>

Nan is a woman, who for a while is Martin Isherwood’s girlfriend. She owns a racing plane, which Ish uses to win a race and continue his plan to become a rocket pilot. When she and Ish go on a practice flight, Ish almost crashes them because for a second he wanted the plane all the way to the moon. For a while she wanted to get married to him, but he never reciprocated the feeling because he was too focused on flying to the moon, and ended up driving her away. The story insinuates that they broke up after Ish orbited the earth on a ship.

<s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s>

Martin Isherwood is the main character of the story. He only wants one thing in life, which is to drive a rocket to the moon. Everything he does in his life is to reach that goal, he pushes everyone away. He pushes away his parents and his girlfriend because they didn’t understand the dream he was trying to accomplish. He is described as very determined, as he only has one thing in mind. He is also very stubborn, doesn’t heed the advice of others and also is described as irritable.

<s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s>

Mackenzie is an army therapist who first meets Martin when he is asked to vet him before he goes on a trip for the airforce. Mackenzie tries to test Martin a lot, but ends up clearing him and allowing him to fly. At the end, it is also Mackenzie who tells Martin what had actually happened to him, and that what he thought was a routine trip was in fact Martin’s first trip to the moon. Mackenzie struggles with telling Martin this, but ends up doing it. This news ends up hurting Martin mentally, and it is insinuated that Martin holds a grudge forever against Mackenzie.

<s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s>

One of the greatest challenges that Martin faces in his journey to become a rocket pilot is the negativity that comes from other people. Almost everyone that Martin meets advises him that he is wasting his life, and that he should focus on something more realistic that can allow him to have a family. His parents, his girlfriend, and Mackenzie all tell him that he should settle for a plane pilot or should focus his career on something else, something less risky. These words only help to make Martin more determined to become a pilot, because he wants to prove everyone wrong.

<s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

The story is set in the fourth millennium, and humans have invented a technology - the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle - that allows them to explore the neighboring cosmic systems. In the past, they were invaded by an alien species called Hymenops, or the Bees, who enslaved Terrans, and tried to colonize other planets but unexpectedly left years later. The crew members of the spaceship Marco Four are on a mission looking for the slave colonies that were abandoned by the Bees. Farrell, the navigator, is arguing with captain Stryker, Gibson - an engineer - and Xavier, the ship’s mechanic, and is trying to convince them to land on Alphard Six and claiming the planet is not inhabited. Stryker reminds him about the importance of vigilance on unexplored territories and tells Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. Something resembling an atomic torpedo explodes near the ship, rocking it. Later, the crew starts discussing who can possibly live on Alphard Six. They know that in the year 3000, there was no one on the planet. The ones who attacked them might be the Hymenopes or some Terrans enslaved by them, or even an unknown alien culture. The screen shows a town with a thousand buildings and a prehistoric ship with rocket propulsion. This ship seems to be eleven hundred years old, which is puzzling. This atomic-powered spaceship neither could’ve been constructed here nor could it have successfully traveled for hundreds of years. The area around Alphard Six was guarded by the Bees for several hundred years. So, it would be impossible for this ancient Terran ship to land on the planet without being detected by them. Farrell interrupts the discussion and suggests they go down and look. He gets on a helihopper, and Xavier quickly disappears in his scouter. The two other crew members left on the ship say that they just detected an electromagnetic vibration. Farrell notices a bonfire near the town. He is ready to report it when his helihopper suddenly jerks, a flare of electric discharge blinds him, and Farrell loses consciousness. He wakes up in an infirmary. A doctor speaks in unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. While walking through the corridors of the ancient ship, he notices Xavier’s scouter, and later the Marco Four. Shocked, Farrell rapidly plunges inside the spaceship, and it darts up when suddenly Stryker appears from the sleeping cubicle and orders him to fly back. Gibson explains that Farrell piloted his helihopper into power lines and crashed. The Alphardians tried to communicate with the crew using an electromagnetic wave language and never attacked them. The Bees made the ancestors of these people believe that they were the descendants of an Earth expedition that perished a thousand years ago. The Alphardians don’t even know the Hymenops. Apparently, the Bees wanted to monitor the human species in a natural habitat. But they never understood human logic and after all, left all their colonies.

<s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

Arthur Farrell is the ship’s navigator, the youngest and most impulsive member of the crew. He tries to convince captain Stryker to land on Alphard Six, claiming that it cannot be inhabited. Stryker doesn’t agree and orders Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. After the torpedo explodes near the ship, they all discuss who the attackers could be. Farrell points out that there was no sign of life on Alphard Six around the year 3000, so the inhabitants appeared after this. Farrell agrees to be sent to the planet’s surface and explore. They continue talking and soon see an ancient ship in the center of the planet’s town. Farrell is quick to state that it couldn’t have come from Earth because it would've taken hundreds of years to travel here, and the ship’s ancient technology is not effective enough for such a voyage. Irritated, he interrupts the discussion and suggests he and Xavier go down and see who the inhabitants are. Farrell flies in a helihopper and notices a bonfire near the town. He starts reporting when the helihopper’s carriage crumples, an electric discharge blinds Farrell, and he momentarily loses consciousness. Later, he wakes up with a brutal headache in an infirmary inside the ancient ship. A medic with anachronistic spectacles and gray hair uses unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. They pass several open ports, and he sees Xavier’s scouter and later the Marco Four. Shocked, he runs to the spaceship and takes off, when unexpectedly Stryker appears near him, ordering him to take the ship down. Soon Gibson explains that Farrell piloted into metallic power lines, and the crash put him out for almost a day. These Alphardians are incredibly friendly. The object the crew considered a torpedo was actually an emergency boat the inhabitants sent to the spaceship to make sure the people on board noticed their colony. Their spaceship’s technology set off the atomic engines of the boat, making it explode. Gibson and Xavier recognized an old language of frequency modulation the night before, heard about Farrell’s crash, and landed the ship to help. It turns out that the expedition that left Terra for Sirius in 2171 perished soon, and the Bees brought the spacecraft here. They also brought some people from their peripheral colonies conditioned to believe themselves descendants of the expedition. They have been let alone. Farrell understands that the Bees were trying to monitor this group and understand humans’ logic, but they never did.

<s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

Stryker is a crew member of the Marco Four, nominally captain of the group sent on a mission to locate the Terran slaves that were abandoned by the Bees. He seems experienced, calm, and disciplined, always following the Reclamation Handbook. Stryker has fought the Hymenops and spent a lot of time trying to understand their behavior. He values his team and doesn’t want to risk them or their ship in the search for the unknown and, for example, was ready to pull Xavier back when they just detected the waves, fearing it could be something lethal. He appreciates Farrell’s eagerness to find the new and enjoys bantering with him; he also respects other crew members, like Gibson and Xavier, and attentively listens to them when they discuss the origin of the atomic-powered ship. Stryker is intelligent enough to determine that this ancient ship couldn’t have been constructed on this planet - it was brought from somewhere else.

<s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

The story begins on a spaceship called the Marco Four. It is working on Ringwave generators and hangs inside the orbit of a dun-colored moon of the green planet Alphard Six. This ship has several tools, including a magnoscanner, the Zero Interval Transfer computer, and a screen that shows the surface of the planet. Then Farrell gets on a helihopper and soon crashes. The next day he wakes up in an infirmary with white walls, tables, lockers, chests, and some unfamiliar chemical odor. It is one of the rooms of the ancient ship located in the central square of the town on Alphard Six. Farrell then walks down a bare corridor with a metal floor and rare open ports that let in a flood of reddish sunlight. He goes through storage rooms, hydroponics gardens, a gymnasium, a nursery, and a power room. He also notices the Marco Four parked near the square.

<s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>

The Ringwave technology allowed humans to explore the neighboring systems of planets, find new habitable territories, and colonize them. It also partially leads to the invasion of the Bees and allows humans to fight with them. The knowledge about the history of the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle, especially the fact that it was discovered in 2100, also helps the crew realize that the spaceship on planet Alphard Six is atomic-powered and thus prehistoric. It’s eleven hundred years old, also Terran, and was brought here from somewhere else.